Mother England
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: Pure unadulterated fluff-warm-up written before completing the next chapter of "True Slytherin." Family silliness regarding Sherlock and Big Brother, and an entirely new form of sibling rivalry.


**Fluff, fluff, nothing but fluff. A girl has to do something as warm-up, sometimes...**

"Please, John, tell me you didn't." Sherlock's expression bordered on dismay—which for Sherlock meant that dismay was already far in his wake and in reality he was heading for frantic denial.

John frowned. "Of course I did. It's raining cats and dogs, we're in a bad part of town, we're chasing a criminal—someone had to take care of the kid. And your brother had the limo. Of course I left her with him."

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock growled. "Have you any idea of the likely consequences of your actions? No impulse control? No concern for other people? How could you leave a toddler with my brother? An innocent little girl? With a pink fleecy parka? And a teddy?" He glared, forbiddingly. "For shame, John, for shame."

John shook his head, uneasily. "Am I missing something? I mean, I'm sure it's not something Mycroft does on a daily basis, but I would think he could manage to look after a little girl for half-and-hour or so until Family Services can be brought in." At Sherlock's increased glower, he added, worriedly, "He's not going to hurt her, is he?" He couldn't believe it of the older Holmes brother, but it was hard to know what else to make of Sherlock's reaction—

—a reaction that exploded in disgust. "Hurt her? Mycroft hurt _her_? What are you wittering on about? Of course he won't hurt her. He'll be too busy making goo-goo faces, and singing nursery songs, and letting her paw his best suit with gummy fingers while he empties his trouser pockets to give her his secret stash of hard candies. _She's_ going to be safer and better looked after than she's ever been in her life, no doubt. No, it's Mycroft who's going to be a wreck. Handing her over to Family Services is going to kill him. He'll be sending me text messages every ten minutes asking for my evaluation of fostering arrangements and whether he should make his presence felt with whatever poor benighted caseworker is assigned to the wretched little ankle biter. It will be months before he manages to develop safe boundaries again—and no doubt she'll be one more added to his godparent list. Unless..." he shuddered. "Oh, dear. How unfortunate. Family Services may not have a chance..."

John looked at him, dubiously. "Mycroft? Your _brother _Mycroft? Sherlock, you've got to be kidding. Would you please listen to yourself?"

"Kidding? Kidding?" Sherlock gestured helplessly. "He's going to be barmy for weeks, you...you...you compete and utter _idjit!_ Of all the people to hand a wee ickle orphan girl-child in pink fleece and damp rompers, why did you have to hand her to _Mycroft_? My brother Mycroft, who nurtures entire *nations* as displacement activity for his gargantuan broody nesting instinct?"

"Oh, come now, be serious..."

"I am serious. John, if you're in doubt, please, consider everything you know about me. Think of every flaw you've ever cursed. Think of every unappealing element of my personality. Then realize that my seven-year-older brother willingly attempted to nurture me from childhood on. _Me_, John. Not some darling renegade from a cuteness farm, not a bouncing baby boy with giggles and pat-a-cake. Oh, no, John. He managed to be maternal about _me_. Not just until I was big enough to put on long trousers and start sneaking cigarettes behind the school gymnasium—no. He was maternal when I got expelled, when I dropped out of Cambridge, when I was arrested for petty theft, when I was otherwise misbehaving...and he still is. Me, John. He mother hens _me_. Now imagine what he is currently doing with an adorable little girl whose parents, rather than providing her with a strong genetic disposition for intelligence and independence, instead bestowed upon her supernatural levels of twee as a compensating factor for being a messy, snivelling, helpless lump of infantile incompetence." He moaned and leaned helplessly against the brick wall of the alley where they'd lost their prey. "I can see it now. Mycroft is already tucking her into the side of his great coat and murmuring about finding her an excellent nursery school so she gets a good start in life. Family Services is going to find out quickly just what it's up against when the British Government decides to take an active interest. Foster family my arse. If there were a betting pool I'd be recommending you bet in favour of my having a legally adopted niece within a se'enight."

John shuddered. "You're really out there on this one, Sherlock. 'The Ice Man'? No. I don't think so."

Sherlock once more met John's gaze with his own haunted, fierce glare. "John? You're not letting it sink in. Think it through, for once." He pushed himself away from the wall and plodded down the alley toward the street beyond, displaying none of his usual endless optimism. "One more time," he shouted as he blundered away, "he loves _me."_

Indeed, John thought, with a sudden sense of ice down his back, Sherlock looked like any youngest brother who's just been told he's got a baby sister, now, and Mommy won't have as much time for him anymore. As he reached the mouth of the alley, he turned back, calling, "Oh, do keep up, John. What are you thinking?"

"Just...just wondering what to get as the adoption gift," John said...and didn't know whether to laugh at Sherlock's mournful groan or not.

In any case, he was warned. When they reached the big black limo, he was quite unsurprised to find Mycroft sitting silent in the back seat, a sleeping child on his chest, and a look of stunned adoration on his face.

"Oh, dear." Sherlock whispered. "Oh, dear. He's _bonded_."

John nodded, thinking in hysteria that, really, with a blue cape instead of his black Burbury coat Mycroft Holmes would have made a splendid Renaissance Madonna.


End file.
